An Outsider Looking Back
by Kimmeth
Summary: I hereby present the sequel to 'An Outsider Looking In'. Many years on and the Watchmen still need a little outside help, but who are those masked heroes...? COMPLETE
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I am but a poor student living off bran flakes and orange juice. I do not own the Watchmen! Please don't sue! The only person I lay claim to is the narrator.

**Note:** This is a continuation of my first Watchmen fic, **An Outsider Looking In**. I suggest you read that one first, for the important reason that it introduces the anonymous doctor who

narrates the chapters.

* * *

**An Outsider Looking Back**

**Prologue**

I'm asking myself a thousand questions as I race down the train tracks to the cave that I haven't seen for ten years. What? Why? Most important, in my eyes at least, who? What could possibly have happened? Why have they waited so long before returning to protect the city once more? And who… who needs my help? Have they recruited some new members since I last saw them or is it the same crew as before?

Well it won't be exactly the same of course. Life and death have taken their toll. Dr Manhattan has left. Rorschach has vanished. The Comedian has died.

Not that the world knows that of course. According to the world a 69-year-old ex-military man fell through a window and had a fancy burial, but I knew the truth. I found out who they all were, one way or another, through either circumstance or fate, directly or indirectly, through third parties or straight from the horse's mouth.

I've always liked to think that I'm calm and collected, not given being starstruck. I'm a professional but it's still taken a while to come to terms with the revelations.

I prefer to think of them as faceless, nameless superheroes, trying hard to be superhuman but always failing…

But I know who they are now. I can match face to name to secret – and not-so-secret – identity.

There's a familiar glow of light at the end of the tunnel, and I can hear the hum of voices. I smile ironically; it's just like the old days.

Night Owl's voice stands out above the rest, the same voice I always recognise from the phone. I wonder if he lives above the cave, changing from Daniel Dreiberg – I can't get used to the name – to Night Owl simply by going down a set of steps.

I shake myself. This is no good. This is why I didn't want to know.

But it's too late for that now. We can't change the past. We can only reflect upon it…

* * *

**Note2: **Very short prologue, I admit, but I didn't really know what to put on the prologue that wasn't in the epilogue of AOLI. So without further ado… the first proper chapter shall be with you shortly.

If you haven't already guessed, this fic is going to detail the different circumstances in which the doctor came to find out the identities of the various watchmen… I'm doing them in the same order as before, so the chronology is a tiny bit messed up.


	2. Edward Morgan Blake

**Note: **Well here goes! I have stupidly chosen to publish this around my uni exam time, so updates may not be quite as frequent as before (one chapter per day is extremely good for me as it is, the last fic I finished was nine chapters but a year in the writing), but they will appear eventually.

* * *

**An Outsider Looking Back**

**Edward Morgan Blake**

I had just finished an ER shift and I was looking forward to getting back to my office to sit down. It had been a long night and I'd lost count of the number of drunks who'd been dragged in missing pieces of tongue or ear from street fighting and suicidal students, dripping wet from trying and failing to throw themselves off the bridge and put an end to all the Cold War misery.

"Doctor?" I spun round to see a nurse holding the telephone receiver, her hand over the mouthpiece. "They've just brought someone into the morgue. They need a doctor to sign the death certificate."

I sighed. The current lack of pathologists and morgue staff was beginning to take its toll on the rest of the hospital. Only in America, I thought, could the dead present such a problem for the living. We only had one pathologist on duty that night, and he was in the habit of wandering off when the feeling took him.

You could feel the morgue before you saw it. I shivered as I walked down the long corridor, with its deceptively steep downwards slope. The cold from the freezers permeated its way up through the rest of the building. Next came the smell, powerfully acidic like disinfectant, trying to cover up the sickly sweet but undeniable stench of death.

I met the young morgue assistant at the doors. He couldn't be long out of his teens, and he certainly wasn't old enough to be fully qualified yet. Leaving a trainee in charge of the entire morgue for one of New York's busiest hospitals… I shook my head. What was the world coming to?

"Alright doc?" he asked, a cheery demeanour at odds with the nervousness in his tired eyes.

"As I'll ever be. Where is the unfortunate soul?"

The assistant ushered me inside the freezing room and waved in the general direction of a sheet covered slab. He came up alongside me, holding a clipboard and pen and began to read off the vital information.

"Name of deceased: Edward Morgan Blake."

I lifted the sheet that covered the cadaver and gasped.

"Doctor?"

Lying on a morgue slab in front of me; old, tired and grey, was the Comedian.

"He's…" I began, but I stopped myself. For a start, no one would believe me if I said 'he's the Comedian'. Secondly, hadn't the main prerogative of a superhero always been to preserve their secret identity? Even in death I still felt that I owed it to him to keep his secrets from the rest of the world. There was something else stopping me as well, something much more personal. Did I even want people to know of my connections to a renegade band of superheroes?

"Doctor?" the assistant prompted tentatively. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, sorry, miles away. Continue."

"Age: sixty-nine; occupation: soldier, retired; cause of death: falling from a great height."

"Pardon?"

"The police say he fell through his apartment window."

I could not suppress a snort of derision. The Comedian, old as he now was, was not the type to simply fall out of a window. I could still see the outlines of toned muscles beneath the skin, and once I had examined the body more closely I could see the tell-tale signs of a struggle.

"That's what I think," the young man beside me said in answer to my sniff. "People only fall through windows in comic books."

"There's something not right about this," I said. "I suppose we'd better find the pathologist, get cracking on the post-mortem. Where the hell is he?" I went to the phone but the assistant stopped me.

"No… The police said just to sign the death certificate. They don't want a post-mortem. They said it was a clear cut case, no need. Just needed a doctor to sign him off. That's why I didn't get the pathologist down, they wanted it done asap."

I shook my head and scanned his person for a name badge, finally seeing it dangling from his hip.

"Jerry, you need a post-mortem if the deceased has died in strange circumstances. It's the law."

Jerry shook his head again.

"Police orders. No post-mortem. Hang on, I've got a letter somewhere." He flipped through the papers on the clipboard and pulled one out. It was stamped with an official government seal and irretrievably smudged, fresh from the typist. There was nothing special about it, merely saying that there was to be no post-mortem on government orders and that the deceased would receive a military burial the next day. I shook my head, and then I came to a grim realisation. It was because they knew who he was. The Comedian had been sanctioned by the government after the Keene Act, going about his somewhat mercenary duties with authorisation from the powers that be. Those powers that be knew that he was Edward Morgan Blake, whoever he might have been in his other life, and they were trying to make damn sure that no one else started asking awkward questions about why a sixty-nine year old ex-soldier had been involved in an active fight to the death before he 'fell' through his window.

But they'd failed. We were already suspicious, and I already knew. Deep in the back of my mind, a memory swam to the surface…

* * *

I had just got in from my shift when I saw that the red light on the phone was blinking silently at me in the darkness. Two new messages, both made within the last ten minutes. I picked up the receiver and dialled the messaging service, ignoring the electronic voice's automated spiel. Finally I heard 'first new message', and my ears pricked up.

"Doc? Are you there?" The voice was whispered and the owner sounded as if he was having trouble speaking. The words were laboured and half-formed. "I need you."

The watchword for the Watchmen. My medical intervention was once more required, although I couldn't make out who was calling from the voice. It didn't sound like Night Owl, but no one really sounded the same when they were in pain. I pressed for the second message.

"Doc, me again." Same voice. "It's the Comedian. I think I've broken my jaw, if that helps you."

I knew I shouldn't laugh, he sounded extremely embarrassed about having to ring up, but at the same time the thought of the Comedian fighting crime with his jaws wired together made me unable to suppress a giggle. I hadn't even had time to turn the lights on and I was back out of the door, weaving my way through the city to the subway entrance, knowing the twists and turns in the darkness like the back of my hand now. The cave at the end of the tunnel was in darkness, and I was beginning to wonder if I was on a wild goose chase. Maybe my patient wasn't here? Perhaps he had called from a payphone.

"Comedian?" I called. "It's the doc. Where are you?"

"Alright, alright, keep it down!" I heard a pained voice near my left ear. "We don't want Drei… We don't want the people upstairs to hear us."

I chose not to point out the fact that whatever place was above us had probably long since been abandoned as a dwelling due to the fact that there was a hulking great airship going in and out underneath them all the time, and in the time I had known them, the Watchmen had not been known for their delicacy of nature, especially if the one I was now conversing with had been using his favourite flamethrower… I peered through the half-light to see that the airship was snug in its usual position.

"Where are the others?" I asked. "And if I'm going to tell you if you've got a broken jaw or not, I'm going to need to be able to see you."

The shape next to me shifted uncomfortably.

"The others aren't here. I was… separated from them. And then someone threw a brick in my face for no apparent reason."

I could read the truth behind the words. I hadn't known him long, but I'd known him long enough to tell that what had really happened involved him going off on his own and picking a fight with someone who'd had the sense to hurl projectiles at him instead of trying and failing miserably to best him in hand-to-hand combat, and he had only slunk back here to get medical attention after the others had given up and come back without him.

The lights flickered on and I saw my patient fully. His face was a mess, I couldn't deny it, blood and bruising everywhere.

"Don't suppose you could do anything with these?"

He held out a hand. In it I could see at least five stained teeth.

"I'm not a dentist," I said. "I know a lot from my orthodontist colleagues at the hospital but I wouldn't like to try. Best get a professional."

He raised an eyebrow slightly, but it quickly fell back to its normal position with a sharp exhalation of pain.

"Say you walked into a door," I said. "You're going to have the best black eyes New York has ever seen," I added. "Most schoolboys would kill to be in your position."

I hopped up beside him and took a good look at his swollen face.

"The jaw's not broken, but I'd get an ice pack on it if I were you. Your nose, on the other hand… That definitely is broken. Not much I can do really. Just ice and painkillers. Grin and bear it. You might want to see a dentist about those teeth as well." I paused. "And try not to speak. I know that's a challenge for you."

He smiled grudgingly, although it was more of a terrifying leer, what with the bloody gap where the teeth should have been.

"Thanks. Sorry about getting you out here for nothing."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "It's my job."

I left him in the darkness; he had switched the lights off again as soon as I had finished my diagnosis, as if he was reluctant to show any signs of having been there at all. As I was wandering back down the tracks, I heard him mutter after me.

"It's not your job though, is it? Your job's at the hospital. Why do you do this, doc?"

* * *

"Doc?"

I jerked out of my daydream to find Jerry waving the clipboard in front of my nose. I took it and signed off the death certificate with a flourish.

"There we are."

Jerry continued to stare at the body.

"So now what?"

"Now we get Dr Anderson down here and get him to do a post-mortem," I said.

"But…" Jerry began, but I was already sending through the call. As 'Dr Anderson to the morgue please' resounded through the hospital, Jerry jabbed the government letter with vehemence.

"Yes, yes, I know. But the mortician won't think anything of it. There's so much murder in this city at the moment that most corpses these days have had post-mortems, and Dr Anderson's stitching is quite remarkable when one considers the amount of whiskey that he's usually got in him when he does it. Besides, I want to find out what happened to him"

"Why?" Jerry sounded almost in pain by this point.

"Because I knew him. At least, I think I did."

I looked down at the face, so familiar and yet a complete stranger. Who was Edward Morgan Blake when he wasn't the Comedian?

* * *

**Note 2: **All the chapters will follow this format – the circumstances in which the doc finds out the identity, with a flashback in the middle. People wanted to see more instances of the doc treating the Watchmen for various injuries, so I'm obliging! I know the circumstances for all the characters and I have flashbacks sorted for all but Adrian. What is it with that man that makes him so blimming difficult to write? Even the weird invulnerable blue guy is easier than him! Never fear, I shall persevere. Laurie's chapter next.


	3. Laurie Juspeczyk

**Note: **I have no problem with Sally Jupiter. Let me get that straight. But, at the same time, she looks so much like she would be the kind of woman who would be an absolute NIGHTMARE of a patient. God bless Carla Gugino for being so inspiring!

* * *

**An Outsider Looking Back**

**Laurie Juspeczyk**

"Doc? You busy?" I looked up from my notes to see Tessa, the secretary for this wing of the hospital, peering round my door.

"No. What's up?"

"You're Sally Jupiter's doctor, aren't you?"

I nodded with a sigh. It was not due to the fact that Tessa had been working with me for a good eight years and still didn't know who my regular patients were; it was more to do with the fact that Sally Jupiter was my patient in the first place. The woman had been through seven doctors in as many months, and sent three of them to nervous breakdowns. I had only had one appointment with her so far and I was praying that the next one wasn't going to be for some time yet. Unfortunately, I had a feeling that my prayers were not going to be answered.

"I've just had her daughter on the phone," Tessa continued. "She sounded worried. Said she'd come home to find Mrs J having another attack – coughing for all she was worth, gasping for breath, blue in the face."

"With any luck she was choking to death," I muttered. Tessa laughed nervously.

"Surely you don't mean that." I raised an eyebrow. "Well, unluckily for you she survived, and now Ms Juspeczyk wants you to go out and have a look at her just in case."

"Well, I can do nothing but my duty. Tell her I'll be there in a few minutes."

The secretary nodded with an apologetic smile and left the room. I took a few moments to prepare myself mentally for the confrontation, and hoping that the brunt of Mrs Jupiter's anger would have already been taken out on her daughter. It seemed ungodly to wish such a terrible fate on a young woman I'd never met, but it was a dog-eat-dog world after all, and it could be argued that it was the fault of said daughter that the medical professionals of New York were saddled with the responsibility of her mother in the first place. Sally Jupiter had been diagnosed as asthmatic the previous year after her daughter had found her in similar circumstances. It was a diagnosis that she stubbornly refused to accept, and every time she was forced to come to the hospital for a check-up, whichever unlucky soul was responsible for her that month was driven to distraction on learning that she had thrown out her medication and was still labouring under the misguided impression that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her. I was the latest in a long line to experience that same despair, and I was no doubt going to be experiencing it again very shortly. I rang the doorbell with some degree of honest trepidation.

"That'll be the doctor," I heard a young voice say through the door.

"It could be the President for all I care. I do not need a doctor Laurie! Whoever it is, make them go away!" I smiled wryly. She was perfectly alright.

"Mother…"

Footsteps approached and the door opened. Laurie Juspeczyk stared at me as if she'd seen a ghost, and I stared back, straight into the eyes of Silk Spectre…

* * *

"Please open your eyes," I coaxed the young woman who was shivering in front of me, tears streaming down her red raw cheeks from under her closed lids. The hair around her face was still dripping from where Night Owl had plunged her head into a water tank and luckily there was going to be no lasting damage to her delicate skin, but her eyes were a different matter. I sighed, despairing of the criminals of today. I was used to treating the Watchmen for various injuries of varying severity inflicted by various opponents of varying violent tendencies. I had never had to treat one of them after having acid sprayed in her face before. Night Owl put a hand on her shoulder, the holes in his cape showing where the vile liquid had hit him. He'd explained it in a gabbled monologue on the phone, words streaming down the line at several syllables per second. They'd been fighting foes as usual, it had turned nasty, and then there was a bottle of acid… He'd managed to protect them both as best he could but he couldn't stop some of it getting on Silk Spectre's face. It was a miracle that they'd had water nearby, he'd virtually thrown her in the tank to get it off, and he'd been trying to bathe her eyes ever since. Thank god it was diluted was all I could think.

"Please," he wheedled.

"It hurts!" she squealed.

"It won't get any better if you don't open your eyes."

"Time's running out," I said, picking up the bottle of drops. "I'm sorry."

I placed a firm hand on her face and forced one eye open, ignoring her struggles. What should have been the white was bright scarlet and a sticky yellow discharge was forming in the corner. She'd be on the eye drops for a good few weeks but she wouldn't lose her sight. I dripped the solution onto her eyeball and it began to water afresh, but she stopped shuddering and gave a sigh of blessed relief.

"That's better." She opened her other eye voluntarily and let me repeat the treatment. This one didn't look to be as bad, but it was probably just as painful. She looked mournful.

"I bet I look like some kind of demon from the tenth circle now," she said.

"Better a demon that can see than a pageant queen who can't," I said, giving her the eyedrops. "Take them at least twice a day for two weeks, more often if your eyes get itchy or painful. It'll be like conjunctivitis for a while."

I stood and turned to leave, starting when I saw Dr Manhattan standing behind me.

"I saw what happened," he said calmly. "Thank you."

I shrugged in recognition. All in a night's work, and I wasn't even going to be late at the hospital.

Night Owl and Silk Spectre echoed their thanks and I made my way out towards the street and the beginnings of daylight, pausing to look over my shoulder. I could see Dr Manhattan consoling Spectre, Night Owl working on the airship, stealing glances every now and then. I continued on my journey, pondering the relationship between the three of them…

* * *

"Well?" I heard my prospective patient call irritably from the next room. "Are you going to let the doctor in? Give him or her a cup of tea? I can't even remember which doctor I'm on at the moment. Is it still that dreadful bearded one from Chicago?

"No, you sent him to early retirement six months ago," Laurie muttered under her breath as she stood aside to let me into the house, following me through to the living room. Sally Jupiter was sitting in her usual seat by the window, hair and make-up immaculate as usual and scowl fixed firmly in place, but her cheeks red from coughing and, now that I was closer, I could detect a definite wheeze in her breathing.

"Oh," she said upon seeing me. "It's you."

"I'll take that as I compliment," I said, shoving my stethoscope in my ears before she had a chance to reply and listening to her chest. The next few minutes were taken up with examination and diagnosis, interspersed with frequent snaps of 'but I'm perfectly alright' from my patient. Just as I was standing up to leave, another bout of coughing overtook her and I gave her an inhaler.

"Mum, the sooner you accept you've got asthma and you aren't infallible any more, the sooner you can stop me getting doctors out to you every five minutes." I had almost forgotten that Laurie was in the room with us. I scribbled out a prescription for various asthma meds and handed it to her.

"It's no use," she sighed, talking to me sideways so that her mother wouldn't hear. "She'll just throw it out as soon as she gets it."

"I can't keep prescribing indefinitely," I said. "I'd suggest hiding them from her if that wasn't going to be utterly pointless if she has an attack. We'll just have to persevere." She nodded glumly and continued to stare at my unexpectedly familiar face. Her mother's sharp eyes missed nothing.

"Do you two know each other?" she asked pointedly.

"You could say that," I said. "In a manner of speaking."

Sally pondered for a moment and then a sly smile broke over her grim features.

"You're the doctor, aren't you?"

"Yes Mrs Jupiter, I am indeed a doctor," I continued, feigning ignorance, "Plumbers don't usually make house calls with stethoscopes and prescription pads."

"No no no, THE doctor." She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Oh, don't play coy, I know you both know that neither of you are what you seem. Don't worry, my lips are sealed. I can't do much else, really." Her tone had changed, from dry to warm. "You've saved Laurie enough times."

I left her to her memories, and Laurie showed me to the door.

"About…" she began.

"In the words of your mother, my lips are sealed," I said. She smiled wanly. "Until next time, then." She nodded and closed the door after me. I began to make my way back towards the hospital, hoping that perhaps, now that Sally could suddenly see her latest medico in an entirely new light, there wouldn't have to be a next time.

* * *

**Note 2**: Ok, this chapter was slightly shorter, but both scenarios were fully formed in my head and it seemed a shame to spoil them by padding them out. Like when I write a lovely German essay on the effects of the economic boom in the fifties but it's two hundred words too short...


	4. Daniel Dreiberg

**Note: **We learn a little bit more about the doctor in this chapter, or rather the doctor's family, who are a source of shameless comedy. I needed to introduce some other people for variety, and to make an idea of mine work… Anyway, you will see that they are a normal person with a life outside of the hospital and mad superheroes…

I apologise for the abnormally long wait, my laptop is dying on me at the moment and I can only sneak five minutes here and there on the uni computers.

* * *

**An Outsider Looking Back**

**Daniel Dreiberg**

My car was sick. There was absolutely no doubt about that. After weeks of spluttering, smoking and almost not braking at crucial moments, there was nothing for it but to accept defeat and drive it tentatively to the garage. Hollis Mason had looked after my car for as long as I'd owned it and none of its troubles had managed to confound him yet, but even he had looked a little worried when he'd opened the bonnet to a cloud of steam and an oil pressure that was off the scale. It looked as if everything that could possibly have gone wrong had managed to go wrong, even if some of those things were contradicting each other. It was going, he had said reluctantly, to be a very long, delicate job.

I was surprised, therefore, when the phone rang that evening and I recognised the garage's number. It couldn't be ready in such a short space of time, not with the amount that had been wrong with it. I answered, still puzzled.

"Hello?"

"Hello; is that Doctor…"

I cringed inwardly as Hollis pronounced my name wrong. He'd been doing it ever since our first meeting, no matter how hard I tried, and I didn't have the heart to correct him now. I liked Hollis, and I could forgive him the slip of the tongue when he took such great care of my car.

"Yes. Don't tell me the car's died on you completely."

"No, this is a human, a friend of mine. He's fainted. Well, he's come round now, says he's fine, but he still doesn't look quite all there. I was wondering…"

"Don't worry Hollis, I'm on my way," I said, anticipating his question and smiling at the sigh of relief that came down the phone.

"I'd call an ambulance but you know the service these days, your leg's fallen off by the time they arrive."

"I know, it's disgraceful. Try not to let your friend faint again. I'll see you in a minute."

I hung up and grabbed my bag before realising that I was going to have to get a cab because my car was at my destination. It took a long time to flag one down, and I was beginning to think that maybe Hollis had given up all hope of me ever arriving. I finally reached the garage after the cab driver managed to get lost three times; I could see Hollis's silhouette in the doorway looking out for me. I paid the driver, leaving a completely out of proportion tip in my haste to be out of the musty vehicle and dashed up the steps.

"Ok, I'm here at last. I swear they get lost on purpose so that they can charge you three times as much." Hollis stood back and let me into his little office, where piles of his book were stacked in precarious positions around the walls.

"Dan, the doc's here."

Hollis's friend turned, and at first I only saw him with a professional's eye. He looked very pale and there was a faint sheen of perspiration over his skin. He seemed to be recovering from his unexpected swoon well enough, but it would be just as well to check him over. Unexplained fainting could sometimes be an indicator of something much more sinister. I set my bag down on a chair and started getting out my equipment.

"If you take your specs off I'll have a look at your pupils," I said. "Have you got a history of fainting?" When I looked up from my light pen, the person in front of me had changed. Instead of looking at a slightly overweight, inconspicuous man, I was staring at Night Owl.

"Erm, it has happened before," he said. "You'll probably remember."

I nodded, and suddenly I was back there…

* * *

It was Christmas Eve, and my family was staying, trying to help me but falling several degrees short and serving only to get in the way. I was trying desperately to think of an excuse to leave them alone, but, since they knew that I didn't have any more shifts until Boxing Day and it was considered bad form for a host to just abandon their guests, I was stuck with them for the foreseeable future. My mother was trying to put the dishes into the washing machine when the phone rang. I ran but I tripped over the wire for the fairy lights and my father beat me to it, answering in his usual military manner whilst I disentangled myself from the decorations. There were several reasons why I liked to pretend Christmas didn't happen and this was one of them.

"Hello?" he barked, then his brow furrowed as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. I couldn't tell what the caller was saying but I could make out enough to surmise that they were young, female and definitely startled by having a seventy-year-old ex-colonel answer the phone.

"I'm sorry, the doctor is not on call this evening," he replied coldly, and I knew at once who was on the other end. "Don't you know it's Christmas Eve?"

He was about to hang up and I was still tangled up, so I hit his good knee from my position on the floor. He looked down as if I was some sort of annoying terrier trying to mangle his trouser leg.

"Give me the phone!" I mouthed.

"But..."

"But it's my bloody phone!"

He dropped it into my waiting palm and I sighed.

"This is the doctor. What's the problem?"

"Thank God you're there." Silk Spectre sounded extremely relieved. "It's Da… Night Owl. He's fainted."

"Fainted?"

"Yes. He just keeled over, I don't know why. He's not injured or anything, he's just collapsed."

"I'm coming," I said, finally managing to escape the wire and standing up.

"But it's Christmas Eve."

"I'm really not worried about that," I said. "Believe me," I added darkly before she could protest further.

"Where are you going?" my father shouted after me as I ran out of the door, thanking Night Owl for giving me the opportunity to escape from my guests. "Who are you going to see?"

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," I muttered as the door slammed behind me, and then I was on my way.

It took me longer to reach the cave than usual, battling against the seasonal snow, but I got there eventually. The headlights of the airship illuminated the chamber clearly, and I could see my caller and her charge seated on the ground. Night Owl appeared to have regained consciousness but he still didn't look too good.

"I'm alright now," said Night Owl. I raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

I checked him over despite his protests. There didn't seem to be anything physically wrong with him from what I could see, and he was regaining more colour before my eyes.

"You do seem to be alright," I said. "Have you got any idea what caused it?"

Night Owl grimaced.

"I was kind of hoping that you'd tell me that."

I thought for a long time, going over all the possible causes of unexplained fainting I knew of.

"Are you on any medication? It could be that. You could be getting flu, it is the middle of winter after all."

Silk Spectre gave an involuntary shiver next to me, and I could tell that she was ruing whoever it was who had made the decision for her to wear that ridiculous outfit.

"Of course, it could be simpler than that. Standing up to quickly, exhaustion, overheating, they can all cause faints. Sometimes it's just stress."

"That's it!" Silk Spectre exclaimed. "The snow!"

Night Owl's look of incredulity mirrored my own.

"What?"

"The snow," she explained impatiently. "You were trying to fly the airship in the middle of a blizzard. How many times did we nearly crash?"

"We did not crash!" said Night Owl indignantly. "We were perfectly fine!"

"Only because you were concentrating so hard on trying to get through a white out. I reckon that's what did it." She looked at me eagerly for my approval. I nodded. It was as plausible an explanation as any.

"I really don't think…" Night Owl went to stand and staggered, clutching his head. Silk Spectre rushed to prop him up.

"Take it easy," I said. "Some people are just naturally susceptible."

"Oh Christ… What if it happens in the middle of something….important?"

I shook my head.

"If you're talking about being attacked by spanner wielding maniacs then you'll probably stay upright on adrenaline if nothing else. I wouldn't worry in that respect."

I went to leave, jumping back onto the train tracks and glancing at my watch. Ten past midnight.

"Happy Christmas," I said absently.

"And a merry new year," he finished. "Hopefully we won't need you before then, but you know crime never sleeps."

"I know." I began to walk away.

"Oh, doctor?"

Turning back I could see Night Owl looking very sheepish.

"Don't tell the Comedian, will you? He'd never let me live it down. Neither would the others for that matter."

"Patient confidentiality," I said. "The secret's safe between us three."

"Four."

Startled, we all looked up to the balcony where Rorschach was crouched in his usual spot in the shadows, looking ready to pounce. Presently he came down to our level.

"When did you come in?" Night Owl asked indignantly.

"Been here all along," was the gruff reply.

Night Owl shook his head in desperation and I left them to it, ready to go back and face the wrath of my family for abandoning them on Christmas Eve…

* * *

"I take it you haven't been flying any airships through blizzards recently?" I asked Dan.

"Well now that you mention it… No, I haven't."

"Eh?" said Hollis from behind us.

Dan explained the circumstances of our previous meetings whilst I did my tests. Just like last time, there was no indication of outward illness. He was just one of those naturally susceptible.

"Maybe you should see your GP," I said. "They'll be able to run some more conclusive tests."

"Maybe," Dan agreed, then he looked over my shoulder at his older friend with annoyance. "Hollis, stop laughing. It's not funny."

"Oh, it is, really." Hollis sighed. "I just wish that we'd had a resident doc when we were fighting our foes. Those were the days."

I laughed. I had not yet read Hollis's book, perhaps because I had not wanted to find out any more than I already did about the world of masked superheroes, preferring to keep them at a good, professional arms length and not take a personal interest.

But then again…

My eyes flickered over to the cover of the nearest volume. Seeing as though I was finding out the identities of the Watchmen without asking to, perhaps a perusal wouldn't hurt. After all, it was almost fate that led me into these situations…

"Say, Hollis… If I buy your book will you give me money off my repairs?"

* * *

**Note 2: **A slightly lighter-hearted chapter there, and a nice little insight into the doctor's personal life. As you know, I can't guarantee when I'll be able to get Rorschach's chappie up. Advance warning, it is going to be fairly short, as he is in no way the easiest person to write…


	5. Walter Kovaks

**I apologise for the ludicrous wait! I have been having computer trouble but now it is fixed and I present you with Rorschach's chapter.**

(*Once again, Kimmeth awaits your views nervously whilst wearing her flatmate's colander and wielding a wooden spoon for protection.*)

**Disclaimer: **Thank you to **Sailor Gaav**, who gave me the initial idea for this chapter's flashback.

The flashback is a direct continuation from the previous chapter's.

* * *

**An Outsider Looking Back**

**Walter Kovaks**

"Guess who I've just interviewed?"

My psychiatric colleague Malcolm sounded as excited as it was possible for someone of his professional stature to sound. He was never going to be as giddy as a schoolboy over a patient, but there was a definite gleam of triumph in his eyes. Unfortunately, I was not in the mood for his veiled enthusiasm, We had lost someone on the operating table that morning, and whilst it was not the first time it had happened, it was still the sort of experience that shook me for a long while afterwards.

"I don't know, Malcolm."

"Rorschach."

I sighed.

"And I've just given the President a nose job. Pull the other one Malcolm."

"Your lack of faith in me is, frankly, wounding. Just listen."

He pressed a finger to his lips and I listened to the radio in Tessa's office next door.

"_Police have confirmed that the vigilante Rorschach was apprehended on charges of first-degree murder in the early hours of the morning…The so-called crime-fighter, real name Walter Kovaks, is currently being interviewed in secure custody…"_

"Well," I said, raising my eyebrows, "Now that's something you don't hear every day."

"I know. I need to get these notes written up before my next interview."

"I'll bet it was very enlightening," I said dryly. "I've often wondered what was going through his head."

"Search me." Malcolm shrugged. "As far as I can tell he's a complete headcase. I've never had anyone give such _normal_ answers to Rorschach cards before. He was obviously lying. I just wish I knew what he really saw. It would be fascinating. I could write an entire paper on him." Malcolm was off in a wistful fantasy. "I always thought being a criminal psychologist would be an interesting career. As it was I ended up in a psychiatric ward."

"Maybe you should have gone in as a patient rather than a doctor... Malcolm, don't tell me you showed him Rorschach cards?" I didn't quite know why I sounded so pained, but it didn't take a psychiatrist to see that showing Rorschach his namesake was never going to yield the best results. He must have chosen that mask for a reason. "Surely you don't think…"

But I tailed off when I saw the picture on the back of the file that Malcolm was holding, a standard police mugshot, a short, ginger-haired man, face pinched.

"Is that him?" I asked in disbelief. Malcolm nodded. He looked so _ordinary_. I don't see why I thoughthe wouldn't look ordinary though. Truth be told I had never really given much thought to the man beneath the mask. I had long since accepted the mask as his face. It made life easier that way. Something else struck me about the picture though, a sense of familiarity. "Wait a minute… that's the 'end is nigh' guy!"

"Pardon?"

"The guy who walks around town with a sign saying 'the end is nigh'! He wanders around outside the hospital sometimes."

Malcolm stared hard at the picture, trying to work out if he'd seen the man before, but I was already miles away...

* * *

I was walking down the tunnel towards the subway entrance, wondering if Night Owl was going to be alright after his fainting spell. I was dawdling, taking my time, not wanting to go out into the snow again and not wanting to have to face my family and explain to them why I had run off and left them on Christmas Eve of all days. With any luck they would have gone to bed.

Suddenly I became aware of another presence near me in the tunnel. I turned, and the silhouette behind me was instantly recognisable from the hat and stance, hands deep in pockets. I stopped in my tracks, and Rorschach kept moving, not seeming to acknowledge my presence, but there was something different about him. It took me a few minutes to realise what it. It was the simple fact that I could see him. Normally Rorschach disappeared in my presence, melting into the shadows so that I wouldn't notice him. This time though, I had noticed him. For whatever reason, he obviously wanted me to see him.

"Alright?" I asked as he got closer. I received a grunt in return. I shook my head. The man was a complete enigma. "Happy Christmas."

"Don't like Christmas,"

"Me neither."

He paused as he went past me.

"Hmm."

"I normally work Christmas," I said, although I wasn't quite sure why I was attempting one sided conversation with him. I started walking again, and I noticed in the gloom that Rorschach was limping slightly. "What happened to your leg?"

"Patched up. Don't worry."

"Rorschach, your attempts at patching yourself up don't end well. I've seen the scars."

He stopped short in his tracks. His shoulders hunched defensively.

"Infected," he said eventually. "Wound's weeping."

I sighed heavily. There was no way he was going to let me treat it, but maybe, just maybe, all this cloak-and-dagger mystery was his twisted way of asking me for help. I rummaged in my bag, cursing the lack of light in the tunnel.

"What colour fluid?"

"White. Ish."

I finally found what I was looking for and caught up with him on the subway tracks, holding out a bottle of iodine and a sealed roll of sterile bandage.

"If you bathe it in iodine that'll help, and change the bandage twice daily. It's going to be pointless to prescribe you some antibiotics, isn't it?"

He nodded, and, after staring at my outstretched hand, took the items.

"Thanks."

And then he was gone, melting away into the shadows, disappearing like he so often did in my presence....

The next day, or rather later the same day, I was wandering around the block, having finally had the chance to escape from my family whilst they fell asleep in front of 'It's a Wonderful Life' on the TV. It had not been the most successful of Christmas Days, not after my unexpected departure the evening before, and I needed to clear my head. The snow was beginning to fall again and there was no one around, why would there be? I could see one set of prints in the road in front of me and looked up to see the little homeless... well, I assumed he was homeless, it explained him being out in all weathers at all times... man with the 'end is nigh' sign limping up ahead of me. He narrowed his eyes as I passed him and pressed a dollar bill into his hand. Maybe he wasn't a beggar after all, although he certainly smelled like one. But, as I rounded the corner to go back to my house, I fancied that there was something else in the look that he gave me. Recognition, familiarity almost...

* * *

"No wonder he always gave me funny looks when I passed him in the street," I muttered under my breath.

"What?" said Malcolm, happily snaffling a donut from the box on my desk.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just thinking aloud."

"Say, did you get your car fixed?" he asked through a mouthful of jam. "Where is it you take it?"

"Hollis Mason," I said, remembering the last time I was there with a smile.

It widened involuntarily when I realised I now knew, through one circumstance or another, the identities of all the Watchmen...

* * *

**Note 2:** Yes, I know we're still missing two chapters, but in the chronology that the doctor's working on, s/he knows who they all by this point. Which is nearly at the end of the comic/film if you think about it . The next two chapters will involve going back in time a bit.

Dr Manhattan now. I'm rather proud of my idea for him.


	6. Jonathan Osterman

Firstly thank you thank you thank you for waiting, what with computer trouble, exam trouble, internet trouble, mental block trouble and mother-falling-down-the-stairs trouble, I've not been updating anywhere near as much as I should and I apologise. Please enjoy this latest installment.

**Disclaimer: **Thank you to **NextChristineDaae ** who helped me out a megaton with my description of the hospital ward and of general medical practices regarding terminal patients. And my taphophobia, which is only slightly related.

**Update 1/9/09: **Spelling corrected. Thanks **Belphegor **for pointing it out.

**Note:** Advanced warning: This chapter is much more sombre than the others.

* * *

**An Outsider Looking Back**

**Jonathan Osterman**

I didn't mind working nights at the hospital, in fact most of my out-of-office shifts were late night or early morning. I liked the challenges that working in ER brought me, and I liked the peace and quiet that walking the wards during the night brought me. Generally, I thoroughly enjoyed my job. But there was one part of it that I was not so happy about, especially at night. I was always affected by walking the terminal wards. No one liked it, of course, but for most the feeling was just neutral. Every time I walked into those darkened wards, I always thought the same thing: we had failed. There were some people that the wonders of modern medicine simply could not help. We had caught their illnesses too late, their conditions were deteriorating quicker than we could cure them... We had failed them. I hesitated before opening the door, looking in through the glass panel at the tableau before me. There were three patients on this particular ward, the room smaller than most but at the same time seemingly more spacious due to the lack of medical equipment. It made the room a more comfortable place for those who were spending their last days there, and it was less distressing for the relatives. Without the constant bleeping of monitors and machines it was less like a hospital, less of a reminder of the grim reality that they were facing.

The family members gathered by two of the bedsides did not look up as I finally entered the room. I wanted to stay, to say something comforting, but I didn't know what I could say that wouldn't sound like it was simply a doctor talking, a cliché. Some doctors were trained to deal with these situations, but I was not one.

The lights were low and I had to hold each patient's chart up to the dim bulbs to make out the details before replacing it as quietly as I could, not wanting to disturb the family groups. I had just approached the second bed when I heard a weak, slightly gasping voice behind me.

"Doc? Are you there?"

I turned to see the third patient awake and looking at me wearily from his position propped up on his pillows. I crossed the small room and took a cursory glance at his chart but I knew him already. Wally Weaver, dying of a terminal cancer that had not been diagnosed until there was no time left to try and treat him or to move him to a more comfortable hospice.

"I'm here," I said quietly. "How can I help?"

"I need to talk to you," he wheezed. "I need to tell you something." He paused, and I could see the effort it was taking him to breathe and to formulate the words.

I pressed a button on my pager to call a colleague, get him to finish the round, and I pulled up a chair next to him, ready to listen. Wally had never had any visitors, and sometimes one of the nurses would sit with him where the others in the ward had a constant vigil of friends and family.

"What is it?" I asked. It was not the first time that a dying patient had confided in a doctor. There were many urban myths about doctors being told the whereabouts of goldmines or wanted criminals, but in my experience people were generally just desperate for some company as they neared the end. It was a sad reflection that once there was no more we could do for a patient they were left alone somewhat, but that was the way that the world of medicine worked. Again I found myself thinking of our terrible failure.

"It wasn't Jon," he said, and with those three words it seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He sank back into his pillows and closed his eyes. "It wasn't Jon." Suddenly he snapped awake again. "You have to believe... It wasn't Jon."

"What wasn't Jon?" I asked, worry rising in my throat. Perhaps I was getting drawn into one of the fabled murder inquiries after all.

"This," he said, and he gestured about himself vaguely. "He didn't give me...this."

"Wally, cancer isn't an infectious disease..."

"I know... That's not what I mean. He didn't... cause it."

"I still don't understand."

"Surely you've heard... rumours." He coughed weakly. "Dr Manhattan is carcinogenic. First me... now Janey... But it wasn't him. I knew him." He paused and took another rattling breath, almost as if he was battling against himself to speak. "At least... I thought I did."

"So..." I digested the meaning of the words in my head, remembering hearing the muffled theories on Tessa's radio. "Jon is Dr Manhattan?"

Wally nodded and gestured to the bedside cabinet, meaning for me to open it.

"Jonathan Osterman," he continued carefully. "He was... a very good friend of mine.... Could you... my wallet, please?"

I obliged, and he slowly opened it and fumbled for something inside. Finally he managed to extract a sliver of paper and handed it to me. It was a photograph, evidently of Wally in his younger days, with two women and another man. He didn't look familiar.

"Is this him?" I asked. "Dr Manhattan... before he was Dr Manhattan?"

Wally nodded.

"That's Jon. Hard to believe... He was once like you and me."

I nodded, but I was slipping off in a daydream once more, back to the last time that I had spoken to the phenomenon who had once been the man in the picture in front of me...

* * *

I cursed as I ran along the streets in the rain. I only had ten minutes before the first appointment of the day; I was never going to make it in time as it was but I realised I had forgotten my bag as well in my haste to be out of the door. I paused for a moment in a boarded up doorway to consider whether or not I should go back for it. On the one hand, I didn't strictly need it since I'd be at the hospital all day surrounded by plenty of medical supplies. On the other hand, it was always useful to have it with me in case of unforeseen circumstances. I started as the payphone next to me rang. I ignored it and set off towards the hospital, and after a while it stopped ringing. I shrugged and rounded the corner, only to be met with another ringing payphone. I couldn't deny that I was unnerved by the circumstances and this time I answered.

"Hello?"

"Doctor?" The voice was instantly recognisable and suddenly the mystery was not so supernatural. Dr Manhattan was on the other end of the phone, and I had long since accepted his talents to be far beyond fathomable.

"What is it?" I asked. "I'm due at the hospital in five minutes; I really don't have time for a full scale emergency."

"Time is relative," he said, but gave no further indication of what the problem was.

"I don't really have time for metaphysics either."

"This is not metaphysics..."

"What's the matter?!" I interrupted, exasperated. "Why have you phoned me?"

"Ah." He appeared to remember the task at hand. "It's Silk Spectre. She's not well."

"Can you give me a better description than 'not well'? Seriously, in five minutes I'm going to have an influx of patients standing in line outside my office if I don't get a move on."

"She has a temperature of 102.86 degrees with emesis and pain in her joints and throat."

I mulled through the options, trying to work out what this mysterious illness could be before someone sneezed as they passed me in the rain, and the answer struck me there and then.

"Hello? You still there? It just sounds like an ordinary 'flu. It's the season for it." I looked at the steady January downpour and thought of Silk Spectre in her skimpy latex outfit, out at all times in all weathers. It was no wonder that she'd caught one of the many bugs that were going around, and if I didn't get out of the rain soon then I would fall victim as well. "Get her home to bed if she's not there already, cool her fever, make sure she's hydrated and give her paracetamol. If the fever hasn't broken within a couple of days get a doctor out to her."

"Right. Thank you for your... time."

I shook my head as I hung up and looked at my watch. Clinic started ten minutes ago and I was still a mile from the hospital. At least the rain was beginning to ease off. I began to run again, mulling over our brief... could it even be called a conversation? Dr Manhattan's medical exactness amused me, anyone listening in would have though him a professional like myself, but he could not recognise the simplest of afflictions. What to me would have looked like 'flu, to him looked like a series of anomalies in the healthy body, connected symptoms of a problem, but not indicative of the problem itself. Perhaps it was because he was invulnerable, he could no longer recognise the things that others suffered that he no longer did. It was another thing that made him seem less, well, less normal. Losing touch with his organic roots... I couldn't say that, he wasn't a robot, but then again, could one say that he was truly human?

* * *

The beep from my pager woke me from my reverie. I ignored it, concentrating on Wally. I went to ask him something but I stopped. I would not get a reply. His breathing, which had been getting progressively shallower and more laboured, had finally stopped, and his eyes were blank and staring. I checked his pulse out of protocol but I already knew I would not find anything.

I closed Wally's eyes and arranged the sheet over him, allowing him some peace for a little while before paging a porter. His words were stuck on a loop in my head.

_I knew him. At least, I thought I did. _

"That makes two of us, Wally," I whispered aloud. I looked down and realised I was still holding his photograph, and I tucked it back into his wallet. It was hard to believe that Dr Manhattan had been an ordinary man until the accident. I had accepted him as being the way he was, full stop. I knew he hadn't always been like it, of course, I pondered the metamorphosis often enough, but I'd rarely given thought to the life he had once led.

I wondered how it felt, to come back to the same world but to be so different, to see it in such a different way.

"You alright?" asked my colleague as I left the ward, his eyes flickering past me to the porters wheeling away the bed. I nodded, not really hearing him as I wandered back to my office, still caught in a complex daydream and wondering at how I had once again been handed the true identity of a Watchman without asking for it.

* * *

**Note2: **I had this scenario in my head from the very beginning, it was the first one I had the idea for, but it was hellishly difficult to write (hence why it took so long) and I'm sorry it came out so solemn. I did not mean to cause any upset.


	7. Adrian Veidt

**Note: **Ok, advance warning, this one does not entirely conform to canon. I've had it from three different sources now that Adrian revealed his identity before the Keene Act, but seeing as though I ended 'An Outsider Looking In' with the Keene Act, and the doc didn't know his identity then, I had to continue that here. So, yeah, just a warning.

This follows on from Adrian's chapter in AOLI but it's not absolutely essential to have read that one first.

* * *

**An Outsider Looking Back**

**Adrian Veidt**

It was shaping up to be a perfectly ordinary day. The news was bad, the weather was awful and Nixon still hadn't done anything about his nose. I was certainly not anticipating any strange occurrences. In fact, I was hoping that there wouldn't be any strange occurrences. Since the Keene Act had passed a week previous I was getting used to having a normal life once more, although I did not regret what I had done for the Watchmen whilst I had been keeping an eye out for them. As soon as Tessa burst into my office without knocking, I knew that my hopes were going to be dashed.

"Doc..." she said, panting to catch her breath. " Switchboard says Adrian Veidt's just walked in and demanded an appointment with you."

"Don't be silly Tess," I replied. "A person like Adrian Veidt does not walk into a public hospital and ask for an appointment with a doctor he's never met."

"He does." My long time friend and colleague Dr Jenkins peered round the door on his way past. "I saw him in reception."

I shook my head and looked at my schedule.

"Tell Switchboard to send him up," I said to Tessa. She made to dash back into her office but stopped at the door and turned back.

"Does my hair look alright?"

I sighed heavily and resisted the urge to bang my head against the table.

"To be honest, Tess, between you, me and the gatepost..."

"Hey!" said Jenkins, taking this as his cue to leave and get on with whatever it was that he was on his way to do.

"...I don't think he swings that way," I finished. Tessa said nothing in reply but looked extremely disheartened as she went to put the call through. As soon as she left I sat back and groaned. Why today, the one day I had set aside as having nothing out of the ordinary happening in it? I liked to think of myself as a person who was not prone to being starstruck, and whilst I certainly was not awed in the same way as Tessa was, I was about to meet one of the most powerful men in New York and I wanted to make a good impression. I thought about searching for medical records before realising that it would probably be utterly useless, and fell to wondering what circumstances could have led to this unexpected turn of events. I had settled on his being attacked by Martian squids when there was a knock at the door. It was time to turn professional again, although part of me wanted to be proved right.

"Come in."

Unfortunately, Mr Veidt showed no signs of a skirmish with a squid, and I was slightly disappointed.

"Please, take a seat... How can I help?"

"I have come to you about a rather sensitive matter," Veidt began. "I would appreciate discretion."

"Certainly, but wouldn't you be more comfortable seeing your own doctor on such a matter?" I looked him up and down, trying to ascertain what this mysterious affliction could be.

"It's not quite as simple as that. I need a dressing changed."

"In that case you'd be better off speaking to the doctor who applied it in the first place."

Veidt nodded.

"That's why I'm here."

He rolled his sleeve up and I took in the crisscross of bandage and burn dressing pads over his arm and hand, the same pattern that I had applied to Ozymandias the week before.

"Right. I see." I couldn't think of what else to say. No wonder his voice had always seemed familiar. "Could you, erm, give me a moment?" I turned my back to him in my swivel chair and pressed my fingers to my temples. It was a little too much to take in.

I shrugged. There _was _nothing else to say, nothing else to think. All I had to do was get on with my job. I turned back.

"I'll get some bandages then."

I left the room and went into the store cupboard next door, my head still reeling and my mind elsewhere...

* * *

To say that I had not had a good shift would have been the understatement of the century, so the sight of a switchboard worker running towards me, the lead from her headphones trailing down her chest, just as I was preparing to leave ER for home, was in no way a welcome one.

"Doc!" she called. "Wait up!"

I turned with a sigh.

"Now what?"

"I've just had a really strange call through for you. The guy wouldn't give a name, he just said he needed to see you urgently. Do you know what's going on?

"Yep," I said grimly. "I know exactly what's going on. Is he still on the line?"

The switchboard worker shook her head.

"He hung up after I told him you were in ER. I can try to ring him back if you like."

I shook my head.

"No, it's alright." I began to leave but before I could do so, the messenger spoke again.

"It was a strange voice. Seemed familiar but I couldn't quite place it."

"I know exactly what you mean." Unfortunately, that extra piece of information didn't do anything to help my mood. I looked up at the clock. It was half past three in the morning and all I wanted to do was go home and sleep, but I had still had to answer a summons for aid. Truth be told I was very tempted to leave it, to drive straight past the alley and pretend that Switchboard had never delivered the message. But, try as I might, I couldn't do it. It was my calling to help people, and that was what I had to do, however ill-inclined I felt. I couldn't stifle a yawn as I trudged along the tracks to the dim light at the end of the tunnel and the all too familiar voices wafted into view.

"Look, can we just accept that the doctor ISN'T COMING?" That was the Comedian.

"Hospitals are big places," Night Owl agreed, although in a slightly calmer tone than his comrade. "The message could easily have got lost, ended up with the wrong doctor by mistake, there are so many possibilities."

"Doc could be sick of your accidents." For the first and perhaps only time, Rorschach and I were in complete agreement. I knew that risking life and limb on a regular basis was what being superheroes was all about, but that didn't stop me from wanting them to take a little bit more care.

It seemed to take me twice as long as usual to arrive in the chamber, and once I had done, I could see why they had called me out. The Owlship was smoking, appearing to have crashed into its landing space at some speed, and as I jumped up off the tracks a piece fell off the vehicle with an ominous clang.

I opened my mouth to ask what had happened but at the last moment decided that I really didn't want to know, and settled for clearing my throat to announce my presence. The gathered – and extremely battered – vigilantes turned, their meagre attempts at first-aid evident.

"At last!" said Ozymandias. "Where have you been?"

"I have been in an emergency room since seven o'clock yesterday evening," I snapped, my ungrateful welcome grating on already worn nerves, "because I have a full-time job to hold down, a job which, like you bunch of miscreants and your vocation, is as tiring and stressful as it is rewarding, so be thankful I came at all."

"And the doc starts talking tough." The Comedian laughed in spite of the makeshift ice-pack he was holding against the back of his head. I turned on him.

"I can just as easily walk away and leave you to muddle through making things worse for yourselves, so if you want me to glue your head back together I suggest you shut up!" I took a deep breath and turned to Night Owl. "Have you got anything to add?" He shook his head, visibly taken aback by my uncharacteristic outburst. I glanced up at Rorschach on the balcony but knew better than to ask his opinion.

"Right. Now that I've got that off my chest, what can I do to help?"

The next few minutes were spent in a hard, angry silence, broken only by the occasional crash of another piece falling off the airship making everyone jump.

"You never ask what happened," said Ozymandias as I bandaged him up and a particularly spectacular smash heralded the demise of the ship's windows.

"I do sometimes. So I know what I'm up against."

"Aren't you curious?"

I glanced back at the ship, which was little more than a shell now, and Night Owl holding his head in bandaged hands at the destruction. I turned back to my patient.

"Occasionally the thought 'how the hell did you wind up in this mess?' crosses my mind. Today, however, I just want to get this over as quickly as possible so that I can go home and sleep, something that I haven't been doing very much of lately thanks to your friend and his kamikaze approach to the use of heavy weaponry." This remark was directed at the Comedian, who had been requiring my assistance to a number of various self-inflicted injuries on an almost weekly basis. "Generally I don't want to know. It's not part of my job description."

"Neither's sneaking around at all hours acting as the resident patch-up for a group of costumed vigilantes. Does Lenox Hill know that you do this?"

"No. I figure that what they don't know can't hurt them. Just as what I don't know about you can't hurt me."

"What if they find out?"

I shrugged. I had never really given much thought to what my colleagues would say if they learned of my secondary occupation. Whilst the personal risk that I incurred by becoming involved in the world of the Watchmen was something I thought of often, I had never wondered about its impact on my work. I mulled over what each of them would say. Malcolm would want to write a paper on my mind, Tessa would ask for autographs and Jenkins would just take it all in his stride.

"It's a bad sprain," I said, changing the subject from my job to his injury. "I've strapped it up as tightly as I can. Move it as little as possible for a week, then you can start using it again. Paracetamol or ibuprofen for the pain."

He smiled wanly, and I thought I recognised the face for a brief moment before a yawn escaped me and tiredness took over, and I could no longer be bothered to try and peer behind the mask.

"Thanks Doc. I think we'll be fine now."

The others echoed their thanks as I meandered away again, the pieces falling off the ship doing nothing to wake me up. It was nice to know my help was appreciated, but I wished that they could pick a more convenient time to call me...

* * *

I was halfway through bandaging, my mind still wandering, when another voice brought me sharply back to reality.

"Doc..."

I turned to see Tessa in the doorway, staring at my patient.

"Tessa, I am in the middle of an appointment, do the words 'patient confidentiality' mean nothing to you?" I snapped.

"I thought that was only the files," she said absent-mindedly.

"You can't just barge into a doctor's office without knocking at the best of times, let alone..." I gave up. "What is it?"

"Erm..."

"You've got three seconds to think of an excuse Tess."

"Nothing." She left the room as quickly as she had arrived and I suppressed a howl of indignation.

"I apologise," I said to Veidt, continuing to wind the bandage up his arm. "She's young and excitable."

"I understand." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you miss it, Doc? The second life?"

"I think I can speak absolutely categorically when I say not in the slightest. I'm very much enjoying a life less complicated now. Besides, I can hardly miss you if you're going to be turning up on my doorstep every five minutes."

He laughed but what he had said made me think. I wondered if, once the novelty of an uninterrupted shift wore off, I would find myself harking back to those days with a fond sense of nostalgia...

* * *

That evening, as I was tidying up my desk, Tessa ran into my office unannounced for the third time that day.

"Have you heard?" she asked, in a voice so high and squealing it was barely audible.

"Have I heard what?"

"This! Look! Can you believe it? To think he was in your office this morning! Can you believe it?!"

I looked down at the newspaper she had thrown onto my desk and burst out laughing. Adrian Veidt had announced to the public at large that he was Ozymandias.

"Yes Tessa," I said when I had composed myself. "Yes I can."

* * *

**Note2: **I've said it many times and I'll say it again – I am not a doctor and I have absolutely no idea how hospitals work. I've got the doc working out of an office and taking appointments, with regular patients (like Sally Jupiter), but at the same time they also work in ER. When my mum fell down the stairs she saw an orthopaedic doctor in A&E at about half nine at night and then she saw the same doctor in a regular office appointment a week later. Doc has already mentioned earlier in the fic that the hospital is understaffed, maybe the doctors have to double up on duties.

Just the epilogue to come now.


	8. Epilogue

**Note: **Here we are, the end of what has been a very long era for me. Enjoy the last instalment.

* * *

**An Outsider Looking Back**

**Epilogue**

So here I am once more. Back in the subway. Back in the lives of the masked heroes.

I'm nearly at the light, and I'm still wondering what I'm going to find.

Night Owl and Silk Spectre. Dan and Laurie. They're sitting on the ground in front of the airship, dabbing at abrasions over the latter's legs.

I want to ask them what happened, but it isn't necessary. It may be ten years later, and things have changed in those ten years, but I still keep to my code.

"Doc," says Night Owl. "It's good of you to come."

"As long as you're still fighting crime, I'm still fighting your inevitable injuries."

I look up to the balcony, but there is no sign of the familiar, ever-moving face in the shadows. I think about asking about his absence, but think better of it, however much I want to know. I set about my task.

"How are you Doc?" Spectre asks as I bandage her leg. "How've you been keeping?"

I want to tell them everything that's happened in the last ten years. I want to tell them about finding out their identities, about my father's funeral, about Tessa's brother being committed, about losing colleagues in the tragedy, but I can't. That was never part of the unspoken agreement. I am merely the outsider looking in on their world.

"You know," I reply. "Same old. You?"

"Same old."

I am the outsider. I am not one of them.

But, on seeing the things they go through, the lives they lead, I cannot help but say that I am glad it is this way.

* * *

**Note2: **For my final note I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed, put this on favourite or alert, assisted me in any possible way, stuck with me throughout the traumas and patiently waited for updates that were in no way forthcoming. I have had a real blast writing this and its parent AOLI, despite it being a nightmare at times (Adrian, I'm looking at you here...), and I have actually found myself talking to the doctor on occasion. Thanks again folks, and adieu.


End file.
